Time goes on
by RedMaskWho
Summary: (Now that season 3 is approaching I thought I'd take the opportunity to kill some characters off while I still can. Soon there will be new storylines and developments to meddle with.) John dies a natural death in a London hospice and guess who he's spending his last minutes with?


Time goes on

The walls were a friendly light green and the curtains a shade darker but still see-through. Sunlight sipped into the small room and enlightened the side of the bed that was facing the window, the plushy looking but elegant armchair and the small table that was completely occupied by a bouquet of white and yellow flowers. It was a small room, but the spare furniture and light colours made it look larger and weirdly comforting.

Tasteful. Subtle. This was not a hospital room. This was a room for lost causes.

John Watson sat up in his bed and rearranged the pillows so that he could peer out of the window without straining his back too much. He could see the façade of the building on the opposite side of the street and some treetops of the nearby park, but what he really wanted to see remained hidden: The street in front of the entrance to the hospice and especially any arriving cabs.

He'd known about his approaching death for some time now. Felt it in his bones. In his guts, somehow. He was at peace with it. Made all the necessary arrangements already. Now the only thing left to do was the actual dying bit. And there was only one person he wanted to be there with him, but as always, that person happened to be not-quite-fashionably late.

There was a small pile of documents on the bed side table that he had occupied himself with for much of the day. Well, whenever he wasn't too busy sleeping or dying. There wasn't much he would leave behind, most of the things he was surrounded by at home belonged to Sherlock and his savings had been spent to pay hospital bills and arrange far too many funerals. The buzzing sound of the electric door opening pulled him out of his thoughts.

"John," Sherlock said as a way of greeting, "sorry it took me so long. I don't move as quickly as I used to." John's eyes lit up as he saw his friend entering the room and navigating his wheelchair towards the bed. "You've got nerves, letting me wait around for you when I've probably only got a few hours left." he said in mock scorn and playfully shoved Sherlock's shoulder when the man finally came to a halt next to his bed stand. "Had to pick something up at the pharmacy. Might be poisonous." "Is that a joke..." John started, but was interrupted by a nurse who came in to take a blood sample and give John his medicine.

He watched her suspiciously as she inserted a cannula for the drip and awkwardly patted John's sparse white hair. It felt soft and was freshly combed. They really did take care of their patients here. He was once again thankful that his brother's connections still benefited them. John really didn't look like he was about to die. Even if his clothes hung a little lose on his thin frame, they were clean and neat as always. There were deep wrinkles in his face, most of them around the eyes and forehead, but they didn't make him seem old or sick, they just gave him his familiar perpetual good- natured frown.

Sherlock couldn't help but notice that they had developed a certain physical resemblance over the years which was only enhanced by the marks of old age. The slightly frail boniness of their bodies, the short, white hair (although Sherlock's was fuller and still a bit curly), the hunched backs and soft sweaters (at some point Sherlock had decided that he was too old for tailored suits), the wrinkled faces with bright attentive eyes and of course the steadily declining height difference, with Sherlock's shrinking to wheelchair size and Johns habit of sitting or leaning.

The nurse quietly worked on and they started talking again, about some of John's documents and his cremation and whether they should invite Anderson to the funeral.

"Do you remember how I thought I would never be happy again after Mary died?" John suddenly asked, his eyes becoming distant for a moment, travelling back in time. Sherlock averted his gaze, he didn't like to think about that period in their lives. Then John smiled and relaxed against the pillows again. "I was wrong. I am happy now. I've had a good life. We've had a good life, haven't we?"  
"We have." Sherlock agreed. "But it is ridiculous that you should be the one to go first."  
John laughed. "Not that ridiculous actually. I put my body through a lot. And I don't have your fantastic super- human genes. I'm not complaining though. Science, regular exercise and a healthy dose of adrenaline now and again have given me a long life. Almost 97 now, can you believe it?" He chuckled. "Time went by quickly enough. Seems like yesterday that we chased criminals all around London." "We did solve that disappearing yacht case just a week ago." "Right. We did."

He looked out of the window. The sun was just setting and turned the sky into a canvas of warm pink and orange.

"Sometimes I miss 221B. It was always a fixed point in our lives, no matter how crazy things got, we always had home to come back to." "It wasn't the flat, John. It was us. You were home to me."

Another nurse entered the room with John's patient chart and a friendly but professional smile. She explained that she would give him something to make him feel more comfortable. "Good day Mister Holmes, I'm glad you could join us here today after all. Dr Watson, I hope everything is to your satisfaction?" "Yes, thank you." "Good. Based on the most recent analysis I advise you to relax now and be prepared for the medicine induced sleep that will ensure a smooth and painless transition. We will give you and Mister Holmes privacy for this stage as it was requested, but be assured that a nurse will be here within a minute if you should require anything. Goodbye, Dr Watson." John nodded and smiled at her, then the nurses left the room and he turned to Sherlock.

"I guess that means it's time. You've done this whole dying thing before, any last minute advice?"  
his voice was becoming increasingly softer and he spoke slowly.

"Avoid the pavement?" Sherlock offered and John laughed. Then the detective got more serious. "I still wish I could save you, somehow. Or trade places with you. Or negotiate a ransom. Break the neck of the person that's hurting you. I'm sorry I can't." John patted his wrinkly hand and smiled. "It's alright, Sherlock, really. Don't worry. The only thing I'm afraid of is letting you lose on the world and not being able to stop you from doing something stupid." "As if you ever could."

John chuckled, but then started coughing.

"Is there anything you need?" Sherlock asked looking bit worried. John shook his head and tried to breathe normally again. "No, it's fine." Sherlock was not convinced. "I'm not exactly sure what my part is here. Am I supposed to hand you a glass of water? Dim the lights? Sing a lullaby?" "Just... continue being an idiot. Be you, that's all I need." He took another deep breath.

"There's one more thing, you know. You will call it sentimental and boring, but it's important to me, so listen. In my whole life, I've never loved anyone the way I love you, Sherlock. I know we never talk about this, but it's my last day on earth, so I make the rules." Sherlock shifted in his wheelchair and brought his eyes level with John's. He didn't say anything, he just sat there and watched as the light slowly dimmed in John's eyes and felt his own fill up with tears.

The old man's voice was just a whisper now and his lips barely moved, but Sherlock was close enough to hear every word.

"Life stops but time goes on, you know? There will be another day, maybe another me, maybe another you. I'm not the religious kind, but I do think we're going to meet again someday."

And those were the last words of professional blogger, ex-soldier, doctor, bee hive expert and consultant of a consulting detective John Watson.  
"I know we will, John."

Two weeks later Sherlock Holmes died of a heart attack while chasing a pharmacist who had sold poisoned vitamin tablets to increase his number of patients. The pharmacist got away, but later turned himself in because someone had laced every single object in his house with poison and left him a note saying that the only available antidote sat in a prison cell that was reserved for him.


End file.
